


truly, madly, deeply

by a_static_world



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feelings, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Anxiety, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Some Humor, Songwriting, i am weak, kind of??, they're in there!, yes the title is a one direction song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:21:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25562749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: Jaskier’s an open fucking book, truly. It drives Geralt a little mad, sometimes, with how much the bard can talk about the depths of nothing. Casual deflections and dry wit paired with Jaskier’s deeper-than-you’d-expect voice, not that Geralt pays attention to things like that. From the word go (read: Geralt punching Jaskier square in the diaphragm to get him to shut up), Jaskier has not been shy with his voice.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 152





	truly, madly, deeply

Jaskier’s an open fucking book, truly. It drives Geralt a little mad, sometimes, with how much the bard can talk about the depths of  _ nothing _ . Casual deflections and dry wit paired with Jaskier’s deeper-than-you’d-expect voice, not that Geralt pays attention to things like that. From the word go (read: Geralt punching Jaskier square in the diaphragm to get him to  _ shut up _ ), Jaskier has not been shy with his voice. If they’re stopped, the lute, which Jaskier affectionately calls Agathe, finds its way into broad hands, strings of melody winding their way into the chiming and thudding of setting up camp. From then until they sleep, Agathe is rarely quiet, and as such, so is Jaskier.

“Geralt, help me with these lyrics.” “Geralt, how does this sound?” “Geralt, do I have too many ballads in my repertoire?” Always pulling him into things, Jaskier. Forcing his opinion, which over time, surprisingly, comes easier. He learns bits about music during their times together, enough to be just vaguely helpful, though he rarely gets a full sentence out before Jaskier’s spine once again bends over Agathe, curls falling into his eyes in such a way that Geralt’s fingers itch to brush them out of the way. The word  _ graceful _ comes to mind, even when Jaskier trips over exposed roots and pours more beer on his doublet than down his throat.

If their bedrolls tend to creep closer as the days grow shorter, well. Geralt blames it on the chill and Jaskier’s human-ness, and Jaskier says everything and nothing about it, and the world still turns. Geralt, of course, rarely sleeps, drifting in and out of semi-unconsciousness as they camp, aware of every snap and rustle. He’s also aware of Jaskier’s heartbeat, often faster than it should be for a man asleep. He ignores it, figures the bard is lost in music or thinking about some barmaid or nobleman from days or weeks or years ago. 

Jaskier lets his hair grow longer, and the curls brush his jaw before he begins tying it back, and Geralt finds himself out of breath rather more frequently than before. Strange; maybe he’s falling ill, or possibly the air had dried out slightly. Strong but sensitive to change, his lungs. If he feels this way, just imagine how Jaskier must feel. Geralt slows Roach for the next few days, only bringing her back up to speed when he catches Jaskier looking at him strangely across the campfire, the light glinting on the curls that spring free of his leather hairband. Geralt pushes down the rising  _ something _ in his chest, settles back against his bedroll, and drifts off to the sound of Agathe playing a melody he’s never heard.

One day, Jaskier stops asking for help. Geralt thinks nothing of it; the bard tends to go through quieter spells when inspiration doesn’t strike, and their bedrolls remain carefully close, so there’s truly nothing to worry about. Only he comes back from the bathhouse in some backwater village to hear Agathe strumming, Jaskier mumbling lyrics he can’t make out through the door. He raps at the doorframe like they always do, a gentle  _ hi, I’m back _ , and he hears the hushed rustle of Jaskier arranging himself as he pushes the door open. They go to sleep like normal, but as Geralt drifts off in the too-soft inn bed, he hears Jaskier scratch lyrics down in his book. 

He takes a contract in another small village, nothing too strenuous. A couple of drowners, but they’re offering free meals and boarding along with payment from the alderman. Geralt accepts, and Jaskier twitches next to him. The scent of crushed heather rolls off of him in waves, and it takes Geralt a moment to realize he’s  _ nervous _ . Nerves are something Jaskier rarely seems to experience, whether performing or just living. Which is why Geralt even notices, honestly. He knows he’s not great with emotion, but Jaskier seems visibly upset. 

“It’s just a few drowners. I’ll be back before sundown.”

“What? Oh, yes, I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully.”

_ Huh. Alright _ . Normally Jaskier pushed to come along on contracts, blathering on about  _ material _ and  _ experience _ and  _ thrill of the fight, darling _ until Geralt relents or tells him to  _ fuck off, this one’s too dangerous _ . However, Jaskier’s been around the block a fair few fucking times with drowners, so it’s not odd that he isn’t interested in coming. What  _ is _ odd is the way he keeps fidgeting with his hair, taking it down and putting it up over and over as Geralt secures their room and leads them down the narrow hall to the single-bed-containing space. Jaskier stands in the door, frozen until Geralt takes him by the shoulders and guides him to the bed. The bard fidgets, spinning his rings and rubbing the hem of his shirt raw.  _ Melitele, he’s worked up. _

“You should, uh, rest, Jaskier. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”  _ In time to catch the end of your set _ , he means, because no matter how bruised and bloody and tired he is, he refuses to miss a single performance. It’s the least he can do, really, seeing as eight out of every ten songs concern him directly, and his presence during said songs greatly increases the tipping quality of the patrons. He downs a Shrike outside the inn without further thought, rolling his neck out before stalking in the general direction the alderman had pointed. The downer nest is easy to locate, and while there are three more than the two they’d told him about, they’re dispatched without any true problems, and Geralt feels the last of the Shrike drain out of his system as he reaches the village square.

By the time he makes it into the inn, Jaskier’s got the crowd wound down. He likes to go in waves, Geralt knows. Start out rollicking and rousing, get everyone drunk enough, then quiet things down for the maudlin drunks before bringing the tempo back up, finishing with  _ Toss a Coin _ . It’s a science, one he’s perfected over their years together, and one Geralt counts himself lucky to see. Jaskier’s crowd control is masterful; a smile here, a wink there, brushing the curls out of his eyes at such precise moments that if you knew him (which Geralt did) you could almost catch the planned-out-edness of it all. Normally, no matter what mood the room was in, Jaskier would greet Geralt’s arrival with a bright smile.

Today, there is no smile. There’s a nervous glance, which Geralt counters with a (hopefully) reassuring nod, thanking the innkeep as he brings over a plate of bread and meat and what he can only describe as a veritable  _ bucket _ of ale. He settles back, tears off a chunk of the bread, closing his eyes as Jaskier finishes the last strains of his most recent ballad. The crowd sniffles and sways, presses impossibly close to the bard in a way that makes Geralt’s skin crawl. There’s a pause, a gentle twang as Jaskier tunes Agathe back up. 

“This is… something I’ve been working on, recently. I hope you all like it.” 

It’s simpler than his usual songs, Geralt notices. Not quite a ballad, almost like a waltz in the way it sounds. His brow furrows as Jaskier begins to sing.

_ Am I asleep, am I awake, or somewhere in between? _

_ I can’t believe that you are here and lying next to me _

_ Or did I dream that we were perfectly entwined? _

_ Like branches on a tree, or twigs caught on a vine? _

He and Jaskier haven't been separated in months. Is there an old flame somewhere, or a countess he’s hoping word will get back to? There’s something niggling at the back of his brain, but he pushes it down in favor of paying attention to the words Jaskier’s singing.

_ ‘Cause here’s the tragic truth if you don’t feel the same _

_ My heart would fall apart if someone said your name _

_ And truly, madly, deeply, I am _

_ Foolishly, completely falling _

_ And somehow you kicked all my walls in _

_ So darling, say you’ll always keep me _

_ Truly, madly, crazy, deeply in love with you _

The whole tavern’s thrumming, Geralt can feel it, the scent of tears thick in the air. He’s-  _ angry  _ at whoever this song is about, whoever got to touch Jaskier’s curls and sleep next to him and-

_ Oh _ .

Jaskier finishes the song, lifting his head to meet Geralt’s gaze. There’s that same something in his eyes and Geralt suddenly… well, not so suddenly, realizes. It’s been a long time coming, if he’s honest. All the times he’s woken to find his arm slung over Jaskier’s waist, every time he’s stalled his hand in midair, catching himself before he picks a leaf out of it. The gods-damned  _ jealousy _ he felt when he thought Jaskier sang of someone else, like a hormonal human teenager. But that someone else is  _ him, _ and the roiling in his gut turns from angst to something close to nervous excitement as Jaskier smiles, for real this time, reading Geralt’s face like only he can. The crowd, thankfully, are too deep in their cups and emotions to follow along with the metaphorical chess-match being played across the room. 

Geralt finishes his meal to the sound of  _ Toss a Coin _ , played with rather more enthusiasm than usual. His body thrums with adrenaline, not altogether unlike before a fight. The air around him feels thick, fogged with the scent of ale and sweat and a generous helping of lust. He sets down his tankard as Jaskier finishes his set, allowing the bard to take his hand and lead him back to their room. 

The oak door shuts behind them, sealing out the sounds of the tavern and leaving the two of them alone yet somehow far from it.

Their first kiss is not tentative, nor is it fueled with passion. If Geralt had to narrow it to a word- exploratory. Roaming hands and wandering lips and bumped noses, the latter drawing laughter from Jaskier.

They find themselves on the bed, eventually; Geralt props himself against the wall, finds himself  _ smiling _ as Jaskier settles into his lap. They can do this now, Geralt can hold him, run his fingers through thick curls whenever he wants. So he does, drags his hand through them, angles Jaskier’s head in for another kiss.  _ Gods _ . Jaskier pulls back, bumps his nose against Geralt’s.

“I meant what I said, you know. I’m truly,”  _ kiss _ “madly,”  _ kiss  _ “deeply in love with you.” and he kisses him one last kiss, for good measure, though Geralt is sure there will be more to come. 

"I love you, too."

**Author's Note:**

> ahahahaha! i am not immune to the ten year anniversary of one direction! and neither is [oddconstellation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoddconstellationofthoughts), because i made her a playlist!  
> i try so hard to write funny things you guys i promise this one is more Dry Humor but... i do try!  
> thank you so much for your love and support, as always, and come find me on [tumblr](https://astaticworld.tumblr.com/) for a chat or to read my often Insane stream of consciousness posts  
> <3


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